


A Scandal in Biology

by suburbanvvar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Case Fic, First Kiss, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 06:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3559991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suburbanvvar/pseuds/suburbanvvar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back when John still had dreams at night, there was a reoccurring one where Harry had been kidnapped and he had to jump across the roof of one building to another in order to rescue her. In every dream, he always felt as if he would make the leap, but then the sensation of falling struck him before he awoke with a spinning head and a twisted gut. He also had a reoccurring dream where his mother sold him for an eggplant field, but he didn't like to think about that one.<br/>----<br/>When a new student comes asking for Sherlock's help, John will have to confront his feelings for his best friend. Sherlock has no clue how the rest of the human population deals with this horribly distracting emotion called love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Very first fic, so I hope you all enjoy! I've been in the fandom for a while, so I guess it's about time to finally post something. Un-beta'd, so if there's any questions or recommendations, I'm all ears! Also, a warning that the tags may change as the story progresses, as may the rating.

 Back when John still had dreams at night, there was a reoccurring one where Harry had been kidnapped and he had to jump across the roof of one building to another in order to rescue her. In every dream, he always felt as if he would make the leap, but then the sensation of falling struck him before he awoke with a spinning head and a twisted gut. He also had a reoccurring dream where his mother sold him for an eggplant field, but he didn't like to think about that one.

 The fact of the matter is that after his father died, he stopped dreaming. Barely slept at all, actually. Most nights he verged on the brink that separated consciousness from the lack of, and on the other evenings he found himself wandering the streets of his neighborhood with his hood up and eyes downcast. Harry barely called their house a home anymore, opting instead for Clara's couch (at least, she said it was the couch) in a small apartment every other night. John's mother was still around, though, so that eased John's loneliness. Although, it's quite hard to decide if one is really truly present if they are only there in body and not in mind, isn't it? After the death in their family, John's mother retreated inside of herself, only making a guest appearance when company was over or when John needed lunch money. Regardless, John was managing. He spent more time focused on school, and at friend's houses. He applied for a rugby scholarship. He started dating a nice girl with soft hair and a good sense of humour.

 Now, John is not glamorous. That is possibly the last adjective that would ever occur to any sane person when they looked at the blond rugby player. Nevertheless, he had a charm that girls described ferociously in their diaries. Below is an excerpt from Jeanette Parson's personal Journal from the 6th of September;

_Okay, so John Watson. Hot, right? Anyways, today at lunch I totally saw him checking me out. I thought he was on the go with Sarah, but it was sooo obvious he wanted me. When we made eye contact, praise the good lord Jesus and call me a sinner, the room went up 30 degrees! I swear it, by the end of the year, I plan to have had good old Johnny in my bed for sure. Oh, and Sadie still hasn't given me back my grey hoodie. Bitch._ (In all honesty, John was in fact looking at Jeanette, but mainly wondering if he should play the nice guy and point out to her that the last guy she slept with, the full-back on John's rugby team, had contracted herpes a month earlier.)

 In any case, the teen had many admirers ranging from the obnoxious girls who enjoyed being the center of all attention, to the quiet yet charming girls who you brought home to meet your mother. Even the occasional brave young man would chance asking John on a date (to which he politely declined). John was an all around borderline-polite, and handsome guy that was everybody's dream boat.

 John was miserable.

 John could barely stand the student body most days, aside from the rat den that inhabited the basement. But rest assured that John knew nothing about that. Day after day he sported a phony smile and held his girlfriend's hand and sat with The Guy's at lunch and handed in all of his assignments just a bit past their due date with a knowing look from his teachers. Harry told him he was a regular barbarian teenage boy, which he pointedly ignored. All in all, life was boring. The most boring effing experience he'd ever had, which is saying something, since as a humble sperm all he did was swim around in his father's testicles. He learned in biology that sperm had a sense of smell, though, so perhaps life before fertilization hadn't been all bad.

 On one particular day, as the final bell rang and the mass collection of hormonal youth filed into the hallways, the angsty teen rounded a corner to get to his locker before a mass of dark curls and sharp angles crashed into him, sending both bodies in a heap onto the floor. John glanced over at the other boy, who at this point was scrambling for books and papers that had flown across the floor. When the dark haired teen looked up, John was at first taken aback at the unfathomable colour of his eyes, then at the scathing expression behind them. "You really shouldn't blame yourself, you know. If anything, ask your brother what he had been drinking the night of the accident." A baritone that was far too deep for a boy that age surprised John further, so much so that the blond sat dumbly on the floor long after the long-limbed boy had left. For the first time in forever, John Watson was not bored.

***

 "Tall? Dark hair? Deep voice? Did he have curls? Yes? Okay. Sounds like Sherlock Holmes."

 John scoffed. "Greg, what kind of name is that?"

 "A poofter's name, if you ask me." John winced sympathetically and mentally apologized to his sister for being too caught up in the conversation to check his friend.

 "Anyways, he crashed right into me and said something about... well he said something, and-"

 "Deduced, right?"

 "Gazunteit."

 "No, it's called 'deduction' or some shit like that. He does it to everybody. He looked at you and told you something completely out of context about yourself. He can pick apart your darkest secrets just by looking at the turn-ups of your jeans or the stain on your shirt or something. Kinda cool, but he's a bit of a freak if you ask me."

 John rolled his eyes. "Nobody could be that clever."

 Greg shrugged his shoulders, swinging his book-bag on and closing his locker. "He could. He was the one who pointed out that Hannah was cheating on me. Figured it out by the cologne I was wearing or something."

 "How'd he do that?"

 "Apparently it wasn't mine. And Hannah had just hugged me."

 "Could mean anything," John grumbled. "And anyways, who does he hang around with? I've never seen him before." 

 The two boys made their way to the front entrance of the building slowly. "He just transferred here this year. Kicked out of Eton, last I heard."

 John choked. "Eton? What the Hell is he doing here, then?"

 Greg chuckled. "Making more enemies than friends, that's for sure. Anyways John, I'll see you round."

 "See ya, mate." John took the long route walking home, and couldn't get the blue-grey eyes out of his head.

***

  John sat on his bed with the small lamp casting a dim light on the room. He threw the red bouncy ball in his hand against the wall.

_Thwack_

 How did Sherlock know about the accident?

_Thwack_

 What was it he said about Harry again?

_Thwack_

 The guy was odd, that's for sure. But John was intrigued.

_Thwack_

 John's phone chimed from in his pocket, a message from his mother letting him know that she'd be out late. He rolled his eyes and didn't bother answering. _Probably off in some bloke's bed while I'm sitting here all alone._ It hadn't taken long, that's for sure, for his mother to get back out there once his father had died. He expected to feel reproachful, possibly livid, yet all John felt was a tiredness in his bones and a slight annoyance tickling behind his eyes.

 His phone chimed a second time, and this time it was an unknown number.

  _ **Want to know how I did it, then? SH**_

 John stared blankly at the screen for one stunned minute before typing out a reply.

  _Sherlock?_

_**Wonderful deduction. Tell me, was it the initials that tipped you off, or are you hiding some sort of genius behind that athletic persona? SH** _

 John blew out a breath of laughter, thumbs flying across the keyboard.

  _Alright, you prat. Tell me how you did it, then._

_**Well, the accident was not hard to figure out. You're still recovering from minor injuries, and you have a slight psychosomatic limp, so it mustn't have been skateboarding or anything otherwise you wouldn't be so traumatized. Now your father. That was less of a challenge. I'll admit that I read about a nasty accident just a few months ago in the paper, and the man in the picture matched a striking resemblance to you. But your brother. That was the hardest part. Your shoes are about two sizes too big for you. You're not poor, but you don't have the kind of money one would spend on that brand of shoe, especially if you were going to get them two sizes too big. Hand-me downs then. Could be a cousin's, but that's unlikely. You're more secluded, not the type for a large extended family. I suppose you may not be close with them, but that again enforces the idea that you wouldn't have hand me downs from a cousin you weren't close to. Brother then. Your father would be a smart man. Military, from the Child of our Troops pin on your jacket. Not the type to drive recklessly, or drive drunk.'How do you know it was from driving drunk, Sherlock?' Honestly, it was an empty intersection at 2am and your car went into a tree. Must have been your brother, since your mother doesn't drive. That bit I figured out from listening to you talk to your friends. And no, that's not cheating, it's listening. Of course, I suppose there's the possibility that you may have been behind the wheel, but to be quite honest you don't seem to be the "drunk driving" type.** _

 The air had left John's lungs in a rush and he sat struck dumb on his bed for a solid 10 minutes before sending a reply.

_That was brilliant._

 Sherlock's reply was even more delayed.

**_You think so? SH_ **

_Absolutely amazing. Although, it was my sister who was driving, not a brother._

  ** _Ugh. There's always something. SH_**

 You really think Harry was driving drunk?

**_Afraid so. Does it being alcohol make you feel worse? If it helps, she could have been high._ **

 John rubbed a hand over his face. Not exactly surprising, given the smell that Harry had on her that night, but seeing it put into such distant, clinical language didn't make John feel better. Really, he should chin this bloke the next time they met in the hallway, but somehow John found his--what was it Greg had called them?-- _deductions_ incredible. Intriguing.

_  It doesn't, but thanks anyways. _

**_I chain smoke when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't speak for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential friends should know the worst about one another. SH_ **

 The blond took his time carefully answering this time.

_Who said anything about friends?_

**_I did. Just now. SH_ **

 John took a deep breath, and decided that he was sick of normal.

_Wouldn't bother me at all, then._


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Perfect," She grinned, thin lips stretching over a mouthful of white teeth. "The less you know about me, the better we will get along."

 It seemed to most of the student body that John Watson had changed overnight. He was no longer the slightly surly jock who constantly looked bored out of his mind. After simply a week in the presence of Sherlock Holmes, John laughed louder, was more alert, and began to enjoy living again. Most of the students were aware of the new friendship, and a few rumours were already circulating about the famous Three Class Watson going gay. These were quickly dispersed by a very livid Sarah who was no doubt herself questioning what had happened to her boyfriend.

 Meanwhile, the two boys payed no attention to these happenings, seeing as Sherlock was presently deducing to John that their married Principal was sleeping with the lunch lady, and ex-stripper who went by the name 'Coco-Mama'.

 "Now you're just making this up!" John wheezed as he tried to take a bite of his sandwich before Sherlock had him in stitches again.

 "I really couldn't," The taller boy replied, a smile glinting in his eyes.

 "Okay," John finally gasped. "How about... Mike Stamford?"

 "He's on the rugby team with you, yes? Well, it's no surprise that he has wonderful agility seeing as he's a closeted dancer."

 "No way!"

 "Look at the way he walks! Several years of ballet are etched into his posture."

 John sat back with a grin playing on his lips. "Oh, I am holding that over him forever."

 John moved on to his apple, sighing at the empty space on the cafeteria table before Sherlock.

 "For God's sake, you need to eat."

 "Not hungry."

 "You're gonna drop dead on your feet one of these days and I'm telling you now that I won't take the blame for you ignoring your stomach." A mildly uncomfortable expression crossed the pale teen's face before it vanished, his brows knitting in confusion, then realization, followed by mild guilt.

 "John, I think you should know something."

 "What is it?"

 "Sarah-" At that moment, a girl with redish-brown hair sat next to John.

 "Talking about me again, 'Lock?" Sarah asked good naturedly. John leaned over and kissed her cheek, frowning slightly when she didn't lean into the contact like she normally would have. If anything, she purposefully kept her face impassive.

 "Everything okay, then?" He asked quietly.

 "Actually, I need to talk to you alone for a minute. Sherlock, if you could?"

 Dark brown curls bounced as the tall teen nodded his head in a hurry, practically leaping out of the cafeteria. He waited by John's locker and paced the empty hallway with a sick feeling in his stomach.

_The cologne theory has proven faulty before, there are many explanations. She could have simply hugged a platonic friend or perhaps it's from ~~her father~~ father's living in the US. Her lipstick shade is #320 A from Maybeline. The mark on Sebastian's neck could have either been #320 A or 340 B. Obviously pregnant, but the only time her and John forgot protection was last weekend, so the symptoms wouldn't be prominent this early on. Please let him down easy, Sarah. Please, please, please-_

 John shoved past Sherlock and straight into the boy's bathroom, his face scrunched up in obvious misery. Sarah followed close behind, but Sherlock stuck out an arm to stop her.

 "I don't think so," He spat. "Do you?"

***

 "John."

 "Go away!"

 "The bell rang 4 minutes ago, we're meant to be in Biology."

 "Go ahead without me, then!"

  Sherlock sighed from where he was leaning against the closed bathroom stall and slid down onto the floor.

 "I apologize."

 "What for?" John moaned from the other side.

 "For Sarah fucking Sebastian. If it's any conciliation, she didn't enjoy it and his penis is smaller than yours by at least 2 inches."

 The stall door unlocked and a very puffy-eyed John stepped out and around his friend.

 "You knew, then."

 "I suspected." Sherlock admitted sheepishly. "She's pregnant, though, so you don't need to get back at her. I daresay that's punishment enough."

 John's eyebrows rose up into his hairline. "She's bloody pregnant? Holy shit, Sherlock. Should we tell her? Is it mine?"

 "Sebastian's, to your fortune. And she'll find out soon enough."

 "Well this day has been a fucking mess." John sighed. "5 months means nothing to her. I can't believe it. You know, I bought her tampons once. _Tampons!_ I really thought we were going somewhere."

 Sherlock rolled his eyes. There was a swirl of irrational anger in the pit of his belly. "Not like you loved her, anyways John. Plenty of other shags in the sea."

 John stopped drying his hands and slowly put the paper towel in the garbage. He spoke cautiously, surprised at Sherlock's tone of voice. "Bloody hell, what's gotten into you?"

 "Nothing!" Sherlock snapped. "I'm going to class. Follow if you wish or continue wallowing."

 John said nothing and stayed where he was even as the bathroom door slammed shut behind his friend.

***

 "Mr. Holmes! Lovely of you to join us," The voice of Sherlock's biology teacher drawled out as he scuttled into class. "15 minutes late? I daresay that's a detention, wouldn't you?"

 "Apologies," Sherlock muttered. As much as he disliked being spoken down to, the boy disliked getting on Mr. Suede's bad side. He was a kind man who never took Sherlock's unruly attitude to heart, and one of the few adults outside of his family who recognized his quick tongue as a defense mechanism as opposed to simply adolescent back-talk. Sherlock took measured steps to his work bench, frowning as he noticed a girl sitting in John's place. She raised a delicate eyebrow at him as he took his seat, before smirking slightly and returning her gaze to the front of the room. Sherlock had never seen her before.

  _Possible I could have deleted her, but sitting in John's usual seat this late into the semester? New student. Clothes indicate... judging by her make-up... she's... well..._

Sherlock shook his head slightly in conclusion. He couldn't pick up any clues about this girl. She wore no perfume, her make-up was simple and almost undetectable. She wore black leggings and a tight black top, hair pinned up out of her face, accentuating her sharp features. No hickeys, bruises, scars, piercings, or any other reference in sight. Her fingernails were neat, yet unremarkable. Un-bitten, unpainted, and about as clean as any other female in the room. Even her shoes weren't any indicator about this girl, for God's sake! He almost jumped when she leaned over and spoke low enough for Mr. Suede not to hear.

 "Trying to deduce me, Mr. Holmes? I heard you could do that."

 Sherlock glanced at her notebook, Irene written in neat scripture. "And where exactly did you hear about me, Irene?"

 "A friend of mine. Fan of yours. But tell me, what have you uncovered about me so far?"

 Sherlock stared silently at her, not giving up an answer.

 "Perfect," She grinned, thin lips stretching over a mouthful of white teeth. "The less you know about me, the better we will get along."

 "Miss Adler! Mr. Holmes! No talking during my lesson, please."

 Sherlock stared steadily ahead, watching the hands of the clock at the front of the room tick my tortuously slow. A small nudge to his hand drew his attention back towards Irene. A piece of paper simply read _'After class.'_

 ***

 John emerged from the bathroom sometime after the last bell rang. Thankfully, neither Sebastian nor Sarah were in sight. The blond made his way towards Sherlock's locker, stopping short a good few feet away when he saw his best friend engrossed in conversation with a girl. A very pretty girl. One whome he'd never seen in school before. Although, she was quite familiar...

 The dark haired girl trilled out a laugh at something Sherlock had said, throwing her head back delightfully, and moving closer into the boy's personal space. John took this opportunity to make an entrance.

 "Hello, hello," John smiled, walking towards the two. Looking at them both, the fair skin, dark hair, and prominent cheekbones, it would be easy to say that the two teens were siblings, at very least cousins. The girl turned towards John and raked her eyes over him. Not to be cocky, but he was used to girls checking him out. This was something different. Almost like a predator sizing up it's prey. But her intense gaze slipped away and she put a hand forward for him to shake.

 "Sherlock, your boyfriend is adorable. I would never have expected you to go for blonds. You seem more of a red-head-prefering man."

 John's face heated as he felt blood rush to his cheeks. "He's- I mean, we're not-like, da-dating. Straight! Well- I'm straight. Sherlock is- well- Sherlock..."

 "Coherent as ever, Watson," Holmes rolled his eyes. "This is Irene Adler. Irene, this is John Watson my... colleague."

 "Best friend, actually. This prat likes to sound important." John grinned, adjusting his bag on his good shoulder. Irene's eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, and even at just meeting her, John could tell it was genuine. Sherlock turned to John, his lips quirking up.

 "John, I believe Irene here is our first client."

 John raised his eyebrows. "Client?"

 "Indeed. It's become apparent recently that my deductions and high intelligence could be useful in crime solving. Miss Adler here has given us our first case."

 John snorted a laugh, taking pride in the expression Sherlock made at that. "Okay, so what. You play the genius while I follow around like some doe-eyed side kick?"

 Sherlock sighed. "We've discussed this before, John. You're of above average intelligence, surprisingly enough. Not exquisitely bright, but as a conductor of light, you are unbeatable."

 Before John could even begin to fathom what _any_ of that meant, Irene pulled out her phone and placed it under Sherlock's nose. A newspaper photo of a young man with olive skin and dark hair was shown on the screen.

 "Victor Trevor. My ex... partner. All I can tell you is that he is in possession of some rather racy Polaroid photos of me. He's threatening to send them to my parents unless I co-operate with his demands. Normally I wouldn't care if the old rats saw them, but they're threatening to send me to a convent if they catch wind of me doing anything the least bit promiscuous again. At the very least, an all girl's school."

 Sherlock blinked rapidly, as if never coming in contact with a sexually active teenage girl before, whereas John simply cleared his throat a few times and asked the questions.

 "So what? You need us to get the pictures from him? Couldn't anybody do that?"

 "Don't underestimate me, Mr. Watson," Irene smirked. "I'd have no trouble marching into the twerp's house and beating the photos out of him myself. The real trouble is that he's almost untraceable when he wants to be. He has virtually no records of himself anywhere. Home schooled. No passport, licence, or credit card. He pays for everything in cash and quite honestly, there are so many _Trevors_ in the phone book you'd be at it for hours before getting a remote lead."

 "Almost." Sherlock announced.

 "I beg your pardon?"

 "You said 'almost' untraceable. I suppose that's where I come in, isn't it?"

 Irene grinned at him. "Exactly. Now, this newspaper article was printed 4 months ago when he survived a minor car crash. Irrelevant, mostly, except that this is the only photograph anybody would be able to find of him on the internet. It's the only way you'll be able to recognize him, Holmes." John interrupted. "Even if we did get the Polaroids back, how do we know he didn't make photocopies?" Sherlock spoke up. "Look at the way he's dressed in this photograph. Not to mention the hairstyle, or that fact that he's probably one of the only teenagers in England not to be on any social media. He's Amish. Wouldn't have access to technology. Honestly, I'm surprised he'd manage to get a hold of a Polaroid."

 "It was mine," Irene piped up. "They weren't kidding about your brain, were they Holmes? Brainy really is the new sexy."

 Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, and it was the most intense staring contest John had ever been a witness to. He felt strangely uncomfortable, so he interjected.

 "Aren't Amish folk against the whole 'sex before marriage' thing?" John could still clearly recall the look of horror on that poor young Amish boy's face when he had caught sight of Harry's crop top and short-shorts at the zoo one summer.

 "He hates his parents and will do about anything to vex them. And we never had sex, just so you know." Irene emphasized. "Just some photos to keep him from going mad in that house of his. Poor judgement on my part, I will admit."

 John couldn't help but feel his phone burn in his pocket at the memory of Sarah's nudes taken a little over a week before. He was a good person, John told himself, so he would be deleting those when he got home.

 "So you have no idea where he lives, then?" Sherlock asked.

 "We only ever met up in public places, and rarely my house."

 "And what is it that he wants from you?"

 Irene paused, hesitating on the words that lay readily on her tongue, before clearing her throat.

 "That's where it gets interesting, Mr. Holmes. He says he wants my virginity."


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Honestly, John," He said, trying and failing to sound formal. "You of all people should be somewhat comfortable when the discussion starts to involve homosexuals."

 Sherlock cleared his throat a few times, but absolutely no sound came out that sounded remotely like intelligent speech. John blinked rapidly, before breaking the silence.

 "Well, that's a bit sexually manipulative."

 Irene snorted, and nudged Sherlock's arm. "I think I've broken him."

 John was still trying to wrap his head around what Irene had said. "So, he's using sexual images of you to try and make you sleep with him? That is, like, eighteen levels of perverted."

 "Clever," Sherlock murmured.

 _" What?!"_ John and Irene hissed at the same time.

 "Bit of an odd bargaining chip, granted, but really that is much more than I expected from a supposedly sheltered Amish kid. Honestly, though, I don't recommend sleeping with him. He's using your sexuality as his tools against you, and shagging him would simply be giving him more to work with."

 "Ta, I've gathered that much." Irene said dryly.

 "Wait," John said, eyebrows knit together. "I thought you said your parents didn't want you doing 'promiscuous things' anymore?"

 "Yes."

 "But you're a virgin?" John pressed, blushing. Irene rolled her eyes and crossed her arms defensively.

 " _Please_ tell me you're not one of those teenage boys who assume that one blow means you're not a virgin."

 John opened his mouth to reply, but after one glance between Sherlock and their client, he became quite red and snapped his mouth shut.

 "Moving on," Sherlock began. "We need to figure out how to track down Trevor. He's Amish, you said?"

 "Yes," Irene confirmed. "Well, not exactly. He's about as close as one could get in the U.K. His family are a bit, well, _devoted_ to traditions, family values, and don't support _'new age technology.'"_

 "How'd you meet him?" John asked.

 "Coffee shop. He's a bit of a rebel."

 "Apparently," Sherlock muttered. "You said, earlier, that you learned about me from a friend of yours. Do they have any more clues as to where Victor could be? Did he ever meet any of your friends?" Irene chewed her bottom lip carefully before answering.

 "We weren't serious enough. I thought he was interesting enough to keep company with, but since he only managed to get out a handful of times, there was never much chance to bring him 'round my friends."

 Sherlock nodded, but John jumped in.

 "Wait, who's your friend? Why'd she know to recommend Sherlock?"

 Irene smirked at John, and stared to speak coyly. "I'd say my friend has a bit of a fascination with Sherlock. A bit of a--" She paused, obviously for the effect. "Crush, if you will."

 

 John choked on his saliva. Sherlock heaved a weary sigh.

 "Tell her I'm not interested."

_"Sherlock!"_

 "But say it nicer than that," Sherlock amended, waiving his hand flimsily. He was obviously more exasperated at the very idea that a girl could be interested in him, rather than flattered. Irene couldn't stop laughing.

 "Alright, boys," She gasped once she regained a bit of composition, shrugging her book bag higher up on her shoulder. "I really must be off. But it was wonderful meeting you both. I assume we'll be in touch to discuss pay and any more details you'll need for the case. Sherlock, my number should be in your phone--" The detective scrambled to check his pocket, amazed at how she could have possibly done that so quickly. "--And I'll pass on your message to your fan. I'm sure he'll be heartbroken."

 Sherlock paused his attempts at guessing the password Irene had set up on his cell, and stared incredulously at her. John couldn't describe his emotions, only it was as if he was experiencing the mental equivalent of the moment right before you sneeze.

 "A boy?" John cleared his throat. "A boy-- _a guy_ \-- is the-- has... has the crush on--?"

 "Ta ta for now, Sherlock. May need to revive your boyfriend, though." Irene positively trilled before wiggling her fingers and clicking down the hallway. John, (who was doing a rather great impression of a goldfish) turned to look at Sherlock with raised eyebrows. Sherlock scoffed, trying to hide the obvious blush creeping up his collar.

 "Honestly, John," He said, trying and failing to sound formal. "You of all people should be somewhat comfortable when the discussion starts to involve homosexuals."

  John's voice rose three octaves. "What?!"

 "Your sister has been out for at least a year now. Hearing about some stranger's infatuation with me shouldn't wind you up so much, regardless of his gender."

 "Oh," John gave a strangled laugh. "Right, yeah. Harry. Harry the lesbian!"

 John was attempting to use comedic relief to save himself from the situation. Sherlock was trying not to burst into flames.

 "Harry the big ol' lesbian. Gayer than Ellen, I'd say. More fairies in her group of friends than in _A Midsummer Night's Dream._ "

 "I think that's a slur." Sherlock remarked, packing his books into his bag, locking his locker firmly, and setting off at a fast pace towards the exit. John tried to keep pace with him, but his shorter legs were doing him absolutely no favours.

 "Is it?" John asked, trying furiously to lower his voice. He cleared his throat a few times before trying again. "Anyways, about the case, should we try asking around about Trevor first? We could probably hit up a few churches around here and ask after the family--"

 They were outside now, the breeze nipping at their faces, the school lot almost empty. Sherlock did up his jacket (an absolutely _horrid_ piece of clothing that he needed to burn as soon as possible) and finally turned to face John.

 "I have to head home, John, but perhaps you could look up some of the local places of worship, and we could start there."

 Without waiting for a response, Sherlock freed his bike from the rack beside them, and was gone before John could even say goodbye.

***

 Sherlock ignored the horns blaring at him as some of the older students drove by him on the ride home. He cursed his brother for cutting him off from the family car, and worst of all, making him ride the blasted piece of metal he was on now. All part of the punishment his parents assured him was for his own _"well being"_ and _"benefit."_ No doubt Mycroft had been the one to suggest a bike of all things. A bike!

 His parents were loaded. Their pockets were _overflowing_ with cash, quite honestly. But no matter how often he and Mycroft begged, they refused to upgrade their house, wardrobes, or appliances, saying that the _important_ thing was saving up for education. Sherlock threw up a bit in his mouth whenever he thought of all the science equipment he wasn't using thanks to his education fund. At the very least, perhaps a nicer piece of junk-metal for him to ride around on would be beneficial.

 He kicked the stand down outside of his house, and rolled his eyes at their painted mailbox, which depicted crudely drawn members of his family, including a curly haired teen with a frowny face. His mother was always prattling on about making a house a home, and all of that nonsense. Sherlock loved his parents, he did, but why the hell did they have to be so bloody _pleasant_ all the time. Even when he had... even after the _events_ of the previous year, all his mother did was promise to listen to his feelings from then on, and his father attempted to spend more time with his son by golfing. _Golfing._

 Jesus, was it too much to ask for a bit of shouting? A reaction of some sort that put the blame solely on Sherlock for his reckless behaviour?

 When Sherlock opened the front door, he was greeted by Redbeard, his beautiful Irish Setter, the only member of the family that Sherlock could stand most of the time. He heard the familiar tune of Danke Schoen leak through his kitchen, from within his father was cooking. The elder Holmes was whistling along with Wayne Newton, as a casserole that looked 80% cheese came out of the oven. Sherlock tried to creep up to his room, but his father's cheery voice rang through the small house.

 "'Lock, you're home! Took your time leaving school, eh?" His father was obviously trying to keep the inquiry light, but Sherlock recognized it immediately for what it was; making sure Sherlock wasn't falling back into old habits.

 "Was talking to John and some girl." Sherlock muttered, and wished as soon as the words left his mouth that he could swallow them back in.

_Oh dear God, no._

_"A girl?!"_ His mother poked her head out of the living room just off the front entrance, and beamed at him. "One of John's girls or...?"

 "Nobody. A client," He grimaced as he felt his parents stare holes into his head. "Not _that_ kind of client. She wants help with a case."

 "A case?" His mother smiled. "Going to start up your detective work again, 'Locky? Oh I remember when you were little you used to love solving crimes--"

 Sherlock was standing at the bottom of the stairs, wondering if he could just run upstairs as a form of farewell.

 "--Running around in that hat of yours!"

 "Do we still have the photographs?" Sherlock's father piped up, waiving a dish cloth at the wailing fire alarm.

 "I'll check the albums after we eat!" Mummy called over the beeping. "Go clean up, Darling! Your brother's coming over for dinner!"

 The teen let out a groan that was drowned out by the alarm, and shuffled upstairs, Redbeard hot on his heels. Opening his bedroom door, he didn't bother moving any of the books off of his bed before flopping down and pulling out his phone.

**_About what you said to Irene earlier... SH_ **

 John's reply was almost instant.

_We said a lot to Irene. What part are you talking about?_

 Sherlock hesitated for only a moment, before putting his thoughts into words and trying unsuccessfully to slow his heart down.

**_You said we were best friends. SH_ **

**_Did you mean that? SH_ **

_First of all, you don't have to keep signing your name. Second of all, we don't have to be if you don't want._

**_What? Best friends? SH_ **

**_I mean, I don't mind._ **

**_If you don't mind._ **

**_But if you weren't serious that's okay._ **

 Sherlock covered his face and threw his phone across the room. He half-screamed into his hands before walking to the wall and picking up his cell.

_I was serious._

_Like, it's been a week, so maybe that's weird. But, uh. You're just about the only friend I have who knows more about me than I do so_

**_What about Grindewald?_ **

_Grindewhat?_ _Greg? He's my mate, sure._

_ But_ _n ot like_

_You know_

_My best mate_

 Sherlock was feeling light headed and decided to make John suffer. He turned his phone off and went down to supper.

***

 The teen glared from over a forkful of casserole at his brother, who was rambling on about work and money and statistics his parents were only barely pretending to care about. Sherlock wondered how much trouble he would be in if he knocked over the jug of water onto the prat's waist-coated torso.

 "Don't bother, William. It won't do you any favours." Mycroft said from behind his wine glass.

 Sherlock counted to ten.

 Slowly.

 "Don't call your brother that, Mike. You know he doesn't like it." Mummy Holmes chided her eldest, laying her fork down on the empty plate in front of her. "Boys, how about you catch up over dishes? Wouldn't that be lovely, Mike? Sherlock, you can tell him about your new friend from school?" She added with a knowing smile.

 Mycroft looked about as thrilled as Sherlock felt, but gave a strained smile. "Of course, Mum. Come on, Billy Boy."

 "Don't!" Sherlock hissed, but his parents were already in the other room. He wondered if counting to twenty would be of more help.

 Mycroft rolled up his shirtsleeves and glared disdainfully at the pile of dishes stacked on the table, but set to work with only a hum of displeasure. "Friend from school, then?"

 Sherlock filled up the sink with warm water and soap. He hated dishes. Hated them. The pieces of food that he touched in the water was enough to make him want to be a better person, because obviously good people didn't have to deal with warm-sinky-food-bits.

 "It's nobody," Sherlock sighed, obviously knowing that he could only delay the inevitable.

 "Doesn't sound like nobody if Mum and Dad know about him."

 Sherlock glanced at his older brother. Mycroft was about eight years older than him, 24, and already in a powerful position somewhere up in the government. But sometimes... sometimes when Sherlock really _looked_ , Mycroft seemed younger. After all, most of the people he graduated with still hadn't settled down in any one job, many were baristas in coffee shops, or working internships in London. Although Mycroft was a prat sometimes,  _(really, truly, he was)_ Sherlock couldn't help but be surprised when moments like these came around; the two of them doing dishes and bickering as though nothing had changed.

 _Everything_ had changed.

 "John," Sherlock started, unsure as to why he was telling this to his brother. "His name is John Watson. He plays rugby. He wants to be a doctor." The teen felt himself blushing, but he couldn't stop himself from speaking. "He likes my deductions. He thinks they're brilliant."

_He thinks I'm brilliant._

 Without looking up, Sherlock could tell that Mycroft had frozen where he was standing, elbow brushing against Sherlock's, a half dry plate in his hand.

 "You--?" Mycroft cleared his throat. "You made a friend, then?"

 Sherlock glanced at his older brother and nodded, smirking a bit at the obvious surprise on his sibling's face. "Best friend, actually."

 Mycroft nodded, more to himself than Sherlock, and continued drying the dishes that Sherlock pulled out of the sink. Sherlock sighed.

 "What is it, then?" The teen appreciated that Mycroft didn't pretend to misunderstand.

 "Be careful, 'Lock, okay? Listen, I know I'm the last one you want to hear this from--" Mycroft cut himself off, watching as Sherlock gripped the counter-top, knuckles turning white.

 "You-- _you think,_ " Sherlock began. _Breathe._

 "Sherlock, all I'm saying is that after last year, you have to understand why we're so _cautious_ \--"

_Bees are flying insects closely related to wasps and ants--_

 "After everything I went through," Sherlock's voice quavered. "Everything that happened, you think I'd be so _stupid_ \--"

_\--are known for their role in pollination and for producing honey and beeswax--_

 "I don't know what to think, Sherlock!" Mycroft hissed. "I haven't a bloody clue what goes on in that head of yours! One moment, you're brilliant. You seem to just _get it_. The next, I find you lying on a park bench with a fucking _syringe_ hanging out of your arm--!"

 His voice had risen to a shout, and Mummy Holmes was standing in the doorway instantly, just in time for Sherlock to dart past her and sprint up to his room, slamming the door shut with enough force to shake the second floor.

***

 He hears the hushed argument that goes on downstairs, his head leaning against the door as he sits cross-legged on his carpet. Redbeard's head is in his lap. Sherlock cards his fingers through the thick fur, and tries to control his breathing.

 "--All I'm saying is that--"

 "Don't you start in on him, Mycroft. You're his brother, not his father. He doesn't need a third parent breathing down his neck. He needs you to be his _brother_."

 Sherlock felt his cheeks dampen as hot tears spilled down his face. How could he have been so stupid? Every time he thought that he and Mycroft were finally on the same page, somehow it got shagged right up all over again. The voices rose in volume, and Sherlock covered his ears with his hands, trying to unsuccessfully block out the noise.

 "What he needs is somebody to notice the signs of a _relapse!_ How often have you--either of you--checked his bag since he's been back home, hm? Checked his room? Called the school to make sure he isn't pipping off _again_ \--"

 "That's quite enough!" His father spoke up for the first time. "Mycroft, we understand that you're concerned. We all are. We are _terrified_ \--"

 Sherlock heard his mother try to muffle a sob.

 "But you have to believe us when we tell you that he is _clean_. He's doing better. He's making friends... John's a good kid, alright? He's good for Sherlock."

 There was silence downstairs, and Sherlock could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

 "He's starting up his detective work, again." His father said softly. Sherlock's head shot up, and Redbeard grumbled and re-positioned his own head on the boy's lap.

 "What?" Mycroft murmured. Sherlock cracked open his bedroom door an inch to hear better.

 "He came home today and said that a girl wanted help with a case. He's coming back, Mike. Slowly but surely, by God, he's coming back."

 There was barely another sound for a few moments. The house was still. When Mycroft spoke, it occurred to Sherlock that perhaps in those few moments of silence, an entire conversation had been held.

 "Well, I'd best be heading off. Thank you for supper, Mummy. Father." The was a pause as Mycroft slipped on his shoes. Then he called out--

 "Talk soon, Sherlock." The door closed before the teen could answer, and he let his own bedroom door shut softly as well.

 

  _Slowly but surely, by God, he's coming back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was a wee bit more dark than the others, but I wanted to add some of Sherlock's back-story in early on so it wouldn't just pop up out of the blue later on. Thanks to all that have been reading so far! Any questions or corrections (brit-picking especially) are always welcome!


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